Zombie Survival: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by James King

  With that, Ted turned from them and, with the rifle still over his arm, he left the bedroom, and made his way out onto the landing. He heard footsteps behind him, several footsteps, so it sounded like they were all coming. That wasn’t surprising. It was all part of human nature. You wanted to know the worse, even as you recoiled from it.

  Slowly, as quietly as he could, Ted made his way down the stairs. All during his journey, his senses keened and harkened to every sound, every whisper; every nuance of the house. He couldn’t hear any more breaking glass, but there did seem to be a different quality to the sounds that were emanating from downstairs – particularly from the kitchen. For a start, the sounds that those things outside made – that horrible moaning sound – seemed louder, more immediate. But more than that, all of the sounds outside – the wind in the trees, the distant song of birds, the crunch of footfalls on the concrete of the farmyard – seemed likewise louder and more immediate. To Ted, that made sense. A dreadful sort of sense.

  At last he made it to the hallway. The kitchen door was ajar, but he paused a few steps away from it: harkening, listening.

  “You think it’s coming from the kitchen?” Dave said from behind Ted. Dave whispered his words, but they were still as loud and as sharp in the air as frying fat.

  Ted turned back to him, held a finger to his lips, and shook his head. Dave quieted, a somewhat chastened expression on his face. Then, slowly, carefully, Ted brought the barrel of the gun up until it clicked into place. Like Dave’s whisper, the sound of the barrel clicking was loud – too loud – but it lasted only for a split second. And then the gun was armed, ready, prepared to deal death to anyone who would challenge the stark simplicity of its muzzle. To deal death – if the thing that it was fired at was able to die.

  Slowly, carefully, Ted inched his way toward the kitchen door. He briefly flicked his gaze toward the front door, and to the doorway that led into living room, just to ascertain what level of threat might be emanating from those two points. The front door was heavy and strong, mostly solid wood. There was just one window at the top of it – small, and made of thick, frosted glass. It wasn’t this window that had been broken, and Ted was sure that it couldn’t be broken unless someone fired a gun at it. He could see shadows moving behind that small section of glass, but he was convinced that those outside would not be able to break through the front door, unless they had some sophisticated means at their disposal.

  The living room however was a different matter. The window in the living room was only a single pane of brittle glass. If an attack was launched on the house, then it could easily be achieved from that direction. But still, Ted didn’t think that was the case. The outside sounds issuing from the direction of the living room still sounded muffled, distant, as though the barrier of glass still held true for now.

  No – it was the kitchen. That was where the outside sounds were clearer, less muffled. That was where the sound of breaking glass had emanated from. If there was an attack, then that was the direction from which it would come.

  Carefully, still moving slowly, the gun held out before him, Ted approached the kitchen door. Reaching the doorframe, he paused, listened again, but could hear no sound of movement from within the kitchen. It didn’t appear that anyone had actually gained entry into the house – or if they had they were keeping very still and very quiet, which didn’t seem to be the modus operandi of those creatures out there. After a moment, Ted decided that it was safe to enter the kitchen, though he would still have to proceed with the utmost caution.

  Ted offered a brief look over his shoulder to see where the others were and what they were doing. They were still in a line behind him; three frightened faces crouched against the wall, waiting for whatever might happen to happen. With a quick gesture of his head, Ted indicated that he was going to enter the kitchen. Dave offered a brief nod, while the other two just brooded there like frightened children in the gloom.

  Slowly, using the muzzle of the gun, Ted inched the kitchen door open. The hinges creaked, as he knew they would, and he gritted his teeth against the sound, expecting that it would alert the enemy. He froze for a moment, but when no attack came – or anything else to disturb the uneasy atmosphere of the kitchen – he pressed forward.

  At last, Ted stepped into the kitchen. His gun was raised, his finger tense on the trigger. But there was nothing to fire at. The kitchen was empty.

  He heard footsteps behind him as the others stepped into the room. He heard tight breaths exhaled as relief set in: relief that there was no one inside the kitchen, relief that the house had not as yet been breached.

  But the relief was short lived...

  “Oh shit... look!” Dave whispered.

  But Ted had already seen. The table top that they had nailed across the window was moving very slightly. Small shards of light were appearing between the board and the window frame as it was gradually teased away from the wall. It wasn’t a full assault against the board – not yet anyway – but a gradual pressure was being applied, an explorative pushing, as though those behind were testing the extent of the board’s strength before, perhaps, the final assault.

  “So it was the window that we heard being broken,” Dave whispered.

  Ted nodded.

  “...they’ve caved the glass in,” Dave went on, “and now they’re trying to break down the board. They’re not being successful – not yet anyway. But how long do you think that sucker’s going to hold...?”

  “Not long,” said Shaun, his voice more of a frightened gasp than a whisper, “those nails weren’t driven in all that deep. And there are – how many of them out there? Hundreds? Maybe even thousands by now. They all start pushing like that; they’ll soon bust the board down.”

  “Christ sake, shut up Shaun,” Jenny hissed.

  “We gotta do something,” said Shaun, “shore it up somehow.”

  “What with?” asked Dave.

  “Just more nails or something,” Shaun replied, “anything to shore the board up. Make it stronger, man.”

  “He’s right,” said Ted. Having adjudged that there was no imminent need to use it; Ted placed the rifle carefully on the floor. He offered a look to the others - particularly Dave – as much as to say “don’t touch”. Then he hunted around for a moment, and finally seized up the box of nails and the hammer. Then he stepped across to the kitchen window and the board that covered it.

  No sooner had he arrived at the window, than there came a loud snapping sound, and one of the nails that had been driven into the lower left hand corner of the board popped out. It tinkled down into the porcelain sink that gaped below it, coming to rest over the mesh covered plug hole. The corner of the board from which it had come from began to be pushed inward from behind. Then, slowly, exploratively, but with ever mounting eagerness, fingers squirmed from beneath the board. Pale fingers, like the hand of a dead man, the flesh darkening toward putridity, the fingernails black with soil and decay. As Ted watched, the flesh of the fingers squashed against the hard edge of the wood, and a foul transparent liquid dribbled out to darken the wood with filthy stains. Then the fingers wriggled and writhed, hooked around the underside of the board, got a grip upon it. Then, tentatively at first, but with mounting strength, the fingers began to pull at the board. For now, they were pulling the board toward the wall, so was not having too damaging an effect on the nails that secured it. But if it started to push...

  And then, roaring, Ted leaped forward. For a moment it had seemed as though he had descended into a kind of paralysis, hypnotised by the site of those pale, dead fingers worming their way from behind the board. But at last, knowing the gravity of the situation, and how close they were to having their defences breached, the paralysis broke. Ted was still holding the hammer and so, as he leaped forward, he brought it high above his head, and then brought it crashing down upon those wriggling, groping, grasping fingers.

  The sound of hammer meeting fingers was a kind of splat combined with the sickly crunch o
f bone. More of the transparent fluid spattered outward across the board and the sink beneath, and then a deep black liquid began to flow out of the ruptured digits. A dreadful sound of anguished moaning came from behind the board, and the fingers retreated, slithering from beneath the wood, leaving only their sickly, glistening matter behind them.

  “Oh God!” Ted heard Jenny scream from behind him, “don’t touch that crap Ted – that slime, don’t touch any of it, it’s infectious...”

  Mindful of what Jenny had just said, but still desperate to shore up the board, Ted dumped the box of nails on the nearby surface, picked one up, and immediately began hammering it into the hole that the other had popped out of. Then he picked another nail up and hammered it below that, and another and hammered it in above. He hammered in four more at various points around the board, a kind of frenzy of hammering, a desperate bid for safety and defence. And all the while, he could hear noises emanating from behind the board. The occasional high tinkle as more glass fell out of the shattered window. And then the occasional light thump and scrabble against the other side of the board as something – pale, dead fingers – groped against it: feeling, testing, exploring, perhaps trying to find the weak points. Trying to get in...

  At last, Ted had hammered no less than ten extra nails around the edges of the board. He stepped back, panting, sweating; the hammer dangling loosely from his hand. He peered at the board. Would it hold? Probably not. Almost certainly not, once those outside became really interested in it, and put their full force against it. Perhaps the injury that he had dealt to one of them would convince them to desist for now. Perhaps. But it wouldn’t hold them forever. This was a losing battle, he knew. In the end, sheer weight of numbers would win the day.

  Suddenly, as though a sixth sense had been ignited within him, and his mind could see what his eyes could not, Ted whirled around. His focus fell directly on Dave. The other man was gazing downward to where Ted had left the rifle on the floor. And, just as Ted, gaze fell on Dave, so Dave took a step toward the gun.

  Quick as lightning – faster than he would have ever thought he could have moved these days – Ted lunged forward. He crouched, snatched the gun up, whirled the weapon in his hands, and then for a moment he pointed it, fully loaded and armed, at Dave. He was so wired and frightened that for a moment he didn’t fully think through what he was doing. For a moment, his finger snaked around the trigger and trembled upon it.

  “Whoa, easy man,” said Dave taking a step backward, his hands rising in an involuntary gesture of surrender, “...just chill...”

  Ted drew a deep breath. Rationality returned, and he removed his finger from the trigger and lowered the barrel so that the muzzle was pointing at the floor. His body trembled – but fear was swiftly replaced by a terrible burning anger.

  “...I told you...” said Ted with a voice that trembled beneath the onslaught of emotion he was feeling, “...I told you that no one was to touch this gun...”

  “I wasn’t going to touch it,” Dave protested, “I just wanted a closer look at it, that’s all. I’m sort of interested in guns. I just wanted - ,”

  “I saw the look on your face,” Ted cut in to him, “I’ve seen that look on men’s faces before. Gun-crazy we used to call it.”

  “We?” Dave asked with a shrug, “who’s we?”

  “You always knew, when a man got a look like that in his face,” Ted continued, ignoring what Dave had just said, “that he might be on the verge of doing something crazy. Like picking up a gun that wasn’t his. And then maybe firing it at someone.”

  Dave offered a ragged sigh, “for the second time – I wasn’t going to pick it up. I wasn’t even going to touch it.”

  “Just give me one reason – one single damn reason – why I shouldn’t kick you out the front door.”

  Dave first seemed amused by this suggestion. Then an expression of real fear spread over his face, “...hey, come on... you wouldn’t do that... you’ve seen what those things are like out there... you send me out there, you’re sending me to my death... come on, man, be reasonable...”

  “Reasonable?” Ted hissed, “you think it’s reasonable to pick up a weapon that isn’t your own? When you’ve been expressly asked not to touch it?”

  “Guys...” said Jenny, a warning note to her voice.

  “Well?” Ted persisted, and now anger forced him to raise the barrel of the gun once again: instinctively, unthinkingly, “do you think it’s fucking reasonable?”

  “Guys!” Jenny shouted, stepping forward so that she was almost between the two men. Not, Ted had time to note, that she stood in front of the gun. Wise girl... “guys... this really isn’t helping. I’m sure that Dave didn’t mean to lay so much as a finger on the gun, did you Dave?”

  “No,” Dave said with a shrug, “no way...”

  “Right. So I think we need to chill. What do you say, Ted?”

  Ted drew another deep and ragged breath. A moment passed. Then, slowly, reluctantly he nodded. He slowly lowered the gun until its barrel was pointing at the floor. But he didn’t look at Jenny. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on Dave: a long hard stare that he hoped communicated everything to the young man that he, Ted, had to say. Touch the gun again, and you’re out of the door... Ted hoped his glare said, out of the door young man – maybe alive, or maybe with a bullet in your head...

  “Alright...” said Jenny with a deep sigh. She clasped her hands together and put them to her mouth: an almost prayerful gesture. “...now, if I might make a suggestion – perhaps it would be a good idea to go and examine the other boards that we nailed across the other windows. We’ve already had one near breach - who is to say that we won’t have another? So rather than arguing and pointing guns at each other, I think it would be a good idea if - ,”

  But Jenny never got to finish her sentence. Because, just at that moment, there came a sound from the direction of the living room. And this time, it wasn’t the mere tinkle of breaking glass.

  This time, it was a loud and rending crash.

  SEVEN

  “What was that?” Shaun whispered, his eyes bulging in the gloom of the kitchen.

  “Oh shit...” Jenny more breathed than said, “...sounded like the living room window breaking. And not just the glass this time, but the whole damn lot.”

  The sound of destruction from the living room was at last enough to force Ted to distract his concentration from Dave. Without a word, he stepped forward; pushing his way past Dave, and exited the kitchen door into the hallway. He glanced toward the front door, but it was holding firm, as was the boarded window at the opposite end of the hall. No – the sound had definitely come from the living room.

  And sounds were continuing to issue from the living room. The smash and tinkle of shattered glass, the deep harsh crack of snapping wood, the shrill squeal of nails being pulled and dislodged. And that other sound as well – the sound of endless, mindless, and yet somehow hungry moaning. Like a winter wind through leafless branches, like a polar wind that soughs in icy abandon across a frozen plane: persistent, chilling, relentless, a harbinger of destruction, death, and decay. And it was here now, in this house, in that room beyond the half-open door, no barrier now impeding it. The time had come, Ted knew, to fight. The time always came in the end. One way or another, the enemy would make his move, and you would then have to make yours. Fight, defend, retreat. And maybe die.

  Ted glanced down and gave the gun a swift check over. Loaded, closed, hammers cocked, ready. Then he looked up toward the living room door. There would be no creeping up to it this time, no careful assessment of the situation. The time for caution had passed. The time for action had arrived.

  Swiftly, he ran across the hall toward the living room door. He heard a voice behind him – he thought it might be Shaun - saying “oh my God, they’re in!” But Ted paid no heed to it. It sounded like a voice in a dream, a voice that you only half hear, and which speaks nonsense sentences. For Ted, everything else – the voice, the presence
of the others behind him, the hallway that he raced across, the floor beneath his feet and the ceiling above his head – were all inconsequential. There was only that half opened door, and the enemy that lurked beyond it. The enemy that had to be fought. The enemy that had to be defeated.

  At last Ted arrived at the door to the living room. He put his shoulder to it and it relented quickly beneath his pressure, banging open against the wall. Ted lunged across the threshold, raised the gun, and fell to one knee. Of course, it seemed unlikely that this enemy would have guns of their own and therefore reply with a headshot – but instinct was powerful. In less than a split second, his vision swept the living room: the furniture standing as useful barriers between him and the window, the sideboard down one side, the gaping mouth of the fireplace – and the window.

  The board that they had hammered over it was gone, and most of the glass was gone as well. All that could be seen within the frame was a waving mass of hands and arms, like the tentacles of some huge, grotesque sea creature. Beyond the arms were many faces: blank eyed, slack jawed, drooling. They packed the lower half of the window frame, struggling, and writhing to get in. And one, Ted saw, had been successful. Ted had time to see a pair of legs and feet slither across the window frame, the rest of the body disappearing behind the couch that stood about a meter of so in front of the window. There came a loud thump as the body hit the floor, a moment of scrabbling and writhing. Then, slowly, it staggered upward, its head and shoulders rising above the back of the couch until it tottered to its feet, its pale mouldy hands groping at the back of the couch, smearing decay into the fabric.

  It was a man, or had been at one time. Its rotting suite hung around it like ragged party streamers, its tie knotted around its neck like a hang man’s noose, its shirt front yellowed and filthy with slime and vomit. Its head hung at that broken-neck angle, and its eyes held a pale and hungry gaze. Its mouth hung open, a strange black saliva drooled from it, and that noise – human but not human – moaned from it like a bitter midnight wind. It tottered behind the couch for a moment, as though trying to get its bearings. Then its eyes latched onto Ted and, with an eager moan, it began to lurch toward him.